The Quietness that Is Waiting for Me

Today I began with silence. I gave this to myself today, to all of us. Because my state of mind affects them so much, it really creates the weather of the house, of our lives.

Today I began with silence. I woke up to the rain and the dark, after going to bed late, up late simply because I was so irritable, and I said to myself, "Okay, what can I do today that might help shift things?"

And it came to me. The silence answered me.

So I breathed down into it and told myself, Today I will begin with silence. Each and every opportunity to speak will be an opportunity to not speak, but to listen, to myself, to the children, to the rain on the windows, the whistle of the kettle.

The oatmeal is ready, and instead of raising my voice so it will carry twenty feet into the other room, I walk over and lean down, into the hullabaloo of lego building, and offer this simple, soft statement: "The food is ready."

And getting dressed to go, which has been so hard for Mica lately, and me, too — let's put your socks on, sit back down, please, no, come back, be still — I can hear the words clattering up my throat, crowding out my sight, breaking the connection. I listen, and the words slow down, they settle and dissipate. I breathe, with one sock in my hand, and maybe just the slightest of smiles.

And on our day goes, up and down, times of more quiet and less, and this day is much more quiet than the last have been. And I'm not just talking about the quiet of not-talking, but the quiet that is inside, the quiet that comes from listening, from awareness, the quiet that is created when we take the time to turn inward, with curiosity and caring, "What is it I am saying now? (Or want to say?) Why? And what happens when I do?"

Right now I am talking about the quietness that is waiting for me, when I remember to wait.